


Sparks

by rageprufrock, seperis



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark has bunk beds and he still has no idea what to make of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks

Clark has bunk beds and he _still_ has no idea what to make of that.

It's not like he has a roommate. Clark's almost sure that Lex arranged that  
somehow, though he's not going to ask. Lex and his maneuvering in that  
eternal quest to give gifts that can't be returned is near legendary by now.

But that leaves the bunk beds, and Clark's just not sure what to do with the  
other one. So far, it's been a clothes depository of sorts--and right now,  
the level of laundry is getting close to hitting the ceiling, not a good  
thing. Floating up, Clark evens out the pile, coming back down to stare  
resentfully at the faux-wood finish of the post and think about the fact  
that he's obsessing over a bed.

Obsessing for no good reason except one, and that's the fact that Lex is an  
hour late.

Not that they had plans. They never have plans. Plans are subject to  
cancellation and random problems, but--it's kind of tradition. This weird  
sort of unspoken agreement that Sunday nights, Lex will stop by and Clark  
will complain about school. It's their _thing_ damn it, and Clark likes  
having a _thing_.

Life just isn't predictable enough for Clark _not_ to have a few _things_  
like that.

In retrospect, a roommate might have been a good thing. He's always  
felt--uncomfortable isn't the right word, but something close to that.  
Adrift, perhaps. Maybe it's the lack of familiar voices, but Clark sees all  
his things and his things alone scattered about with a mild discontentment.

Something's off, a badly-shaped puzzle piece forced into a mostly-fitting  
spot or some other confusing parable but whatever it is, it make him  
uncomfortable.

Home was supposed to envelope, seduce, comfort, not put one ill at ease.  
Not make him feel--vaguely out of place, inches from where he should be, and  
it's--really time he stopped paying quite so much attention in philosophy  
class if this is how he starts thinking when he's alone.

Especially on a night he _shouldn't_ be.

Pacing the room, Clark ignores schoolbooks and old candy wrappers, kicking  
shoes out of his way and glancing at his watch to pretend he's checking on  
the battery. It's an old watch, damn it. Maybe it--goes too fast.

He won't get hurt. He won't pace the room. He'll put on his shoes, go out,  
and see if anyone's around to play with--er, hang out with. He doesn't need  
a rematch on Grand Turismo III. He doesn't need to see Lex. And he sure as  
hell doesn't need to sit around his room, moping, for a guy who has a very,  
very busy schedule, not to mention an actual _life_.

In fact, Clark rationalizes, in the grand scheme of things, this day is  
 _better_ without Lex. Because Lex has a tendency to _win_ every time they  
play Grand Theft Auto and then refuses to tell Clark about his misspent days  
of youth and how that bears a possible connection with his admirable  
abilities to a) steal cars and b) acquire prostitutes.

Really, Clark is _glad_ that Lex isn't here yet because Lex is a stuffy  
adult businessman and Clark? So much cooler.

Really. He was even at a rave the other week.

Granted, he left early, but the point was that he was there and Lex hadn't  
fallen out of any S&M clubs smelling like strawberry foam in _years_.

He's eighteen, nearly nineteen. He is a healthy almost-adult male in need of  
company and he can find that. He's interesting, he's smart, he's fun to be  
around--and no, he doesn't count the stupid comments made by his obviously  
completely delusional next door neighbor that he has no life, because, damn  
it, he _does_.

With that in mind, Clark swings open the closet door with a sense of  
triumph. Clothes will be put on and the going out will commence. Totally  
new tradition. Going out on--a Sunday night. The most boring night of the  
week.

Also, he's seeing a real lack of clothes going on here.

Empty hangers are suspended in lonely clumps from the bar and litter the  
floor. Oh, this can't be good. He has no clothes and he wants to go  
clubbing.

Life. Sucks.

A knock on his door interrupts his train of thought, and Clark stomps over.  
Jeans are good enough for clubs. And right, his chess club shirt might not  
be the hottest thing out there, but still. He's cool. He doesn't need Lex  
or games or cool clothes or anything...

Opening the door, Clark stares at the slim, be-jeaned and be-sweatered man  
before him.

"Lex?"

Somehow, the entire lack of clean laundry just doesn't seem that important  
all of a sudden.

Lex levels a long, considering stare at Clark before smiling, low and slick  
and lazy, like a Metropolis August: Clark feels it flush across him.

He doesn't bother to wave Lex in and Lex doesn't move but he does _watch_  
before saying, "So I was thinking."

Clark blinks. He's learned over the years to just _go with it_.  
"Thinking," he parrots.

Lex grins, cocks his head to one side in a way that _might_ be called  
flirting, if you know, if it wasn't _them_ , and says, "You want to go out  
tonight? Instead of sitting around here having me kick your ass at video  
games?"

Clark blushes. "You do _not_ kick my ass," he says hotly, but he's already  
stepping out into the hallway in ratty jeans and a gray t-shirt, less  
concerned than ever about appearances.

Lex takes two steps back and falls into stride next to Clark. The students  
on the floor still cast them the occasional look but for the most part,  
they're used to it: Lex Luthor and Clark Kent, two opposite sides of the  
same agriculturally funded coin, best friends and maybe more. Clark's heard  
all the jokes and they aren't important right now.

Because, Clark thinks, we're stepping out.

* * *

It's a bar--a nice one, not one that Clark, in a thousand years, would have  
considered visiting. The name throws him--The Seraglio? A glance at Lex  
shows nothing but normal Lex-calm, but beneath, something's seriously going  
on there.

A man in a very nice suit greets them--very large, very imposing, and Clark,  
superpowered and all, feels the Instant Intimidation of someone staring down  
at him from six inches above his head. A single look takes them in,  
college-chic clothes and lingering on Clark's ratty cross-trainers, but a  
second glance at Lex is like a magical free pass. Stepping back from the  
door, the man nods. "Mr. Luthor. Welcome to the Seraglio."

"Nice to see you too, Joey." Joey? Clark wonders if he looks as nervous as  
he feels. This looks like the type of place that rich people go to -- do  
wild, crazy, immoral things. Bad things. Wrong things. Things Dad would  
disapprove of muchly. Things....

Oh yeah. He's _so_ grown-up.

The man opens the door, letting them inside a dimly lit room, all polished  
wood and soft carpet, and Clark watches Lex charm the manager (or so Clark  
assumes) who appears almost instantly, gracing them with an oily smile and  
that type of greeting that Clark defines as 'sucking up'. Lex gets that a  
lot in Metropolis. "Mr. Luthor! What a pleasure to have you with us...."

Lex nods sharply, cutting him off with a smile. "Floor seating today. See  
that drinks are brought at once. This is Clark's first time."

Floor seating?

Lex's hand closes over his arm, leading him to a red curtained doorway.  
Something smooth and vaguely rhythmic is drifting through the curtain, and  
Clark blinks a little as the manager pulls it aside, letting them in.

His first view is of a very, very naked woman doing something that should be  
anatomically impossible with her legs.

"Lex...." The word escapes on a shocked hiss, and Martha Kent's very  
not-so-grown-up son finds himself staring around him in shock. Naked.  
Women. _Everywhere_.

Clark is going to work through this. Granted, his logical reasoning skills  
are less than impressive, but being around Lex and his astounding ability to  
make _anything_ cryptic has to count for _some_ practice. So Clark blinks  
three times and decides that he's not hallucinating and turns to look at Lex  
gape-mouthed and breathing a little too hard because - wow, he didn't know a  
person could _bend_ that way.

Lex is smiling, a dark, rich sort of expression that makes Clark itch.  
"Like it?" he asks, like he just took Clark to a goddamn zoo or something.

Clark tries to form words in his mouth and when he utterly and completely  
fails, Lex laughs and places one slender hand on his arm again, pushing him  
toward a table and saying thing about flies and not looking common, Clark,  
close your mouth already unless you intend to do something useful with it.

Clark flops into a chair and Lex sits opposite to him. Instantly, three  
girls dance closer to them and Clark gulps and leans away instinctively  
because there's just something unnatural about breasts being _that_ three  
dimensional. He's done his stint with porn and the university's T3 line and  
kazaa but that was always grainy and pixilated and good _God_ , where they  
 _supposed_ to be that shape?

"You," Clark finally manages, "brought me to a strip joint."

Lex waves this off. "Gentleman's club, Clark. "Strip joint" is so plebian.  
Is your Literature professor useless?"

Clark thinks that this is what defines Lex: sitting at a prime table in what  
is probably the most expensive strip club in the world, after having taken  
his barely legal best friend there and knowing all the managers and bouncers  
by name, surrounded by miles of satin skin and more tits and ass than Hugh  
Hephner could shake a stick at - and he's chastising Clark about _diction_.

"Gentleman." Two very expensive looking crystal glasses are set between  
them. Fun. Okay. Fun. Hmm.

Turning, Clark takes in what appears to be quilt squares placed in strategic  
positions by a pretty brunette with very sleepy eyes. Eyes focused on Lex  
with all the interest of a starving cat contemplating a wounded mouse, and  
oh man. This is...this is....

"Thank you, Cybil." Reaching for the glass, Lex takes an elegant sip.  
"Perfect." Looking up at her -- face, God please let him be looking at her  
face -- Lex smiles as if she alone is the reason the alcohol is up to stuff.  
"Clark, try it."

Why did he call her Clark?

Clark blinks briefly, realizing that though the smile is Cybil's -- is he  
resentful? No! No reason to be! -- the words are for him. Gingerly,  
remembering far too many experiences with fragile things and uncertain  
control and wow, she has big breasts -- focus, Clark -- he picks it up,  
taking a sip of an almost thick, red liquid that his tongue instantly  
identifies as Some Kind of Red Wine.

Another new lesson. Red wine for meat and strippers. Always useful.

"Great," he says, and hopes he sounds sincere. Could she and her breasts  
please go somewhere else? "Thanks."

Clark takes a bigger drink as the waitress leaves, focusing on the heels  
currently only inches away at near-eye level. Farther up from that he  
cannot go. Doesn't want to go. Though those are nice legs in those hose.  
Thigh highs? That's interesting. And her skin, the color of honey, looks  
soft. And wow, how does she get that kind of close shave....

He's looking at a woman's -- place.

Clark takes another drink and wonders if the wine will be a good excuse for  
the fact his face is burning.

"It's all right to look, Clark," Lex says and Clark curses in his head.

It wouldn't kill him to _miss something_ one day, Clark thinks bitterly.  
All Lex does is smirk and drum his fingers on the table.

"It's why we're here," Lex goes on. He gives Clark a Look. "Or more, if  
you like."

Clark's mouth go automatically dry and God, when did it get so hot? What  
the _hell_ is being an alien good for if he's not even going to be  
impervious to this sort of shit? And really, he ought to know better  
because for God's sake, it's _Lex_ , one big invitation for wheezing terror  
and generally inappropriate things smashing into one another with  
inexplicable grace.

"More," Clark deadpans.

"More," Lex concurs, smiling merrily.

"Are you _trying_ to kill me?" Clark demands.

Lex's smile widens, changing into something vaguely challenging. It's a guy  
thing that Lex has perfected, that way of daring without saying a word, and  
it's irritating because it works. Taking a breath, Clark gulps down more  
wine, a little surprised to feel a slight rushing sensation as he sets  
the -- empty? -- glass down. Grown-up. He can look at live-action naked  
women. This is fantasy stuff, right? Settling in the leather seat, Clark  
starts at the silver heels again and starts working his way up.

Yes, legs still in hose, garter belt -- that's pretty, but isn't it  
uncomfortable? -- her -- place -- up to smooth hips, an tiny waist, and --

"Whoa." Instant erection. The kind that can break concrete or cause  
intense pain, whichever one, and Clark catches himself almost slipping a  
hand to his jeans, dear God, is he a _kid_ still?

Breasts. Big, round, soft-looking, pink nipples, one pierced. Pierced!  
Reaching for his glass, he forgets it was empty, but amazingly, its' not  
anymore, and that's Totally Okay, because he needs a drink badly.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Lex do some sort of wave, and the  
breasts -- girl, it's a girl, Clark, not an anatomical part -- come closer,  
bouncing softly as she moves to the rhythm of the music. Sliding down, long  
legs slip outward, and right here in front of him, she's doing a split --  
dear God, she can do a split? -- sleepy blue eyes looking into his, red hair  
sliding provocatively over her shoulder, casing one perfect breast in silk  
floss. A nipple pokes through wickedly, and Clark takes another drink,  
wondering if his eyes are as big as he's really scared they are.

She's _naked_ and she's dancing for _them_. Him. Lex. Here. Close enough.

One more drink. He needs it.

Lex leans forward, slipping a bill into the tiny string around her hips,  
barely noticeable and the only reason that bit of cloth doesn't move. As he  
slips it in, Clark feels his mouth go dry, because he is looking at a  
woman's--vagina--right here and it's a real thing and...

He needs more to drink. Much more.

"Wow," he hears himself whisper, and he's a dork, right, but you know, right  
now, he just can't care.

He hears Lex laugh softly from beside him and he can't even tear his gaze  
away long enough to glare.

The girl smiles, and the expression looks _real_ now, eyes shifting from Clark to Lex and  
her lips purse just slightly and she says, "It's been ages, Alexander."

Clark doesn't fall out of his chair. He's _really_ proud of this.

He also doesn't look at Lex, but that's mostly because he's still staring at the girl's place --  
 _vagina_ , he can _say it_.

"Too long," Lex almost purrs, and the girl's smile gets wider before she focuses again,  
does one more soft shimmy that has her breasts bouncing and Clark's brain screaming  
before she sashays off -- not before running one manicured hand down the length of Lex's  
arm.

Clark makes a sound that is _not_ a squeak, 'cause, you know, _adult_ \-- above that.

But he does finally turn around to Lex and say, "So."

Lex just raises his eyebrows and sips out of a glass that seems to have appeared magically  
at their table. His lips linger on the edge of the cup and Clark doesn't know why that's so  
distracting but he's already got sex on the brain and his dick isn't getting the idea that he  
can't exactly _do_ anything about it right now. "Like what you see?" Lex asks, friendly.

Clark scowls. "What kind of question is that?"

Lex just smirks. "A good one, I hope." Clark is quiet and Lex says, "You wouldn't take  
the Porsche. I had to improvise."

Lex is still the giver of flagrant presents, shiny, bright, large objects that are, by Clark's  
speculation, only half to please. There is a large part that makes Clark think that Lex is  
putting a mark on a person, like having a silver-blue Porsche as a student is a big  
giveaway that _that_ is the Clark Kent that is friends with Lex Luthor. There's something  
possessive and not at all subtle about it, like Lex is laying claim.

What ought to bother Clark more is that he doesn't mind. It makes him smile.

He likes it when Lex tries things like this, doesn't care when he ends up on papers with  
Lex at one event or another: they're very photogenic when they're together, generally  
smiling, like they're more comfortable in one another's company than anywhere else.

"I suppose I'll get a pony next," Clark says.

Or maybe a sign: Lex Luthor's Friend.

Lex just smiles into his drink in a way that makes Clark think of...totally inappropriate  
things for a strip club full of women.

"Kinky, Clark," Lex says, teasing.

Clark thinks that he walked right into that one.

So he just rolls his eyes and turns back to the sparkling stage where everyone is waiting  
for the next girl to arrive. He's still thinking about this, Lex's need to show people certain  
things or people or accomplishments are his own. It gives him a really strange flush to  
think that he's Lex's, because those words _mean more_ than they should, at least to him  
because Clark has always made it clear to everyone involved that Lex is _his_ friend,  
emphasis on " _his_ ".

Because when he thinks of people belonging to one another, he thinks about wedding  
rings and domestic arguments about who should have taken out the garbage and what  
movie they're going to see on the weekend. But since it's Clark and Lex someone _else_  
would take out the garbage for them and the arguments are going to be over whether or  
not it's ethical to destroy small, struggling corporations for fun and profit. The point is  
that it leaves a lot of open space and Clark imagines that if it was him and Lex, it would  
probably be filled with unimaginable amounts of sex.

...Oh _shit_.

This is not, Clark realizes, a normal thought for a heterosexual man to be having.

Clark stumbles over his own tongue for a while before gathering himself. "Why," he  
starts, "exactly are we here?"

Lex actually sets the glass down and looks concerned. "Are you feeling okay?"

Clark stares at him. "I'm -- I'm fine -- what?"

The concern reveals mocking amusement. "A nineteen year old male in a strip joint  
generally does _not_ question the reasons he finds himself there."

Clark opens his mouth to provide a long treatise on why he's _not_ questioning, really,  
and more importantly why Lex sucks before his brain catches on something.

"You said 'strip joint,'" he crows.

Lex narrows his eyes.

Turning his attention back to the stage -- he takes his victories where he can get them  
these days -- Clark watches her bend backward over a chair. It's very athletic, and his  
wine glass is apparently bottomless, and that's all kinds of okay.

"We -- had drinks once."

Fucked like naked bunnies, Clark's translates mentally, and his eyes narrow. Her legs are  
maybe a little too short for high heels -- and look, what's this, she totally is _not_ a  
natural blonde! Settling in his chair, Clark watches her lick her lips, and really, she's not  
that hot. Her mouth is all wrong....

But probably looked really interesting, say, wrapped around Lex's cock....

And, oh my _God_ , Clark is now thinking about Lex's cock and all the liquor is making  
him susceptible.

He runs one hand through his hair and sets down the glass to stare at the stage intensely  
because, hey, naked girls!

With Lex.

Naked girls with Lex who is also naked and then Clark is right back to thinking about  
Lex's cock, which is all kinds of deliciously wrong.

Clark sneaks one look over at Lex which is a _Big Mistake_ , because is doing that  
indecent thing with his mouth and the rim of the cup again and Clark has to turn back to  
look at the stage.

This is not helping. He's already been having these really...worrisome ideas about Lex.

You know, speculation, thought, tangents, maybe a couple of pairs of ruined boxers.

All, Clark thinks, par for the course when your best friend is Lex Luthor, who Clark has  
long since decided just breaks all sorts of boundaries. Including those, Clark thinks  
distractedly, various images of Lex and Lex's cock and that damn bleach blond floating  
through his head, that mark off Clark's sexuality.

He's going to be irritated and frightened after he stops being...preoccupied, really.

The music ends and the girl straightens with ruler-like precision, like a second ago she  
wasn't just doing that thing with her legs and back, grabbing a diaphanous looking bit of  
material to throw over her very bare breasts and disappearing. Lex, Clark can tell, is  
watching her with a curious expression of interest, like just maybe, there was a reason  
besides Scaring the Crap Out of Clark that this evening came to be.

Not good at all. Clark takes a drink of his wine, the edges of fuzz in his head suddenly  
becoming very pronounced.

"Are you going to ask her out tonight?"

Somehow, that had sounded different in his head. He's not sure what it was supposed to  
be, but he's _almost_ sure he didn't mean to ask that question.

Very blue eyes fix on Clark. "Is that what you call it?"

Shrugging, Clark slumps into the seat. He's a man. He can handle this. Another strain of  
heavy music, and Clark watches a tall brunette slip out from behind the curtain. Corset  
covering somewhat smaller but not less impressive breasts. Little leather bit between her  
legs. Black hose. Straight dark hair and wide dark eyes.

Clark finds himself leaning forward to watch her as she saunters toward the center of the  
stage, one leather-gloved hand wrapped around a central pole.

Clark thinks there's a vague similarity: the hair, the eyes, they look like Lana.

But the slide of her body, the way it occupies space and flows through it like parting  
water, that's all Lex.

And then she begins to dance, circling, stroking the pole, eyes focused on their table the  
whole time, dark like two very naughty promises.

It's the corset that that goes first, string by string, she loosens and pulls and untucks in  
time to the music until it just slips off of her and lands with a soft thud on the ground  
that's in time to Clarks' jaw dropping again. She bends over next, and in some patently  
illegal slip, manages to pull off her gloves in way that makes Clark think about silk and  
sheets and drying stains the morning after.

And it's a _bad time_ but for _no reason_ the words "Lex's cock" float through his mind  
again, clinging to his temporal lobe and feeding him images: Lex, pale and thin and  
strong with those long, long legs wrapped around him, dark eyes staring up, the two of  
them moving like a symphony.

Clark is _not turned on_

Because being the biggest dork in Smallville, coupled with being an alien, is *quite  
enough* -- thank you -- to make Clark feel like a freak for the rest of his life.

He really doesn't want to have to add "gay" to that list and just complicate things more.

Besides, he thinks sullenly, stupid. Lex goes to places with naked girls, not naked boys.

"That's Brandi, with an 'I'," Lex murmurs, and right, of course it doesn't escape Lex's  
attention that Clark's two steps from drooling, even if he has no idea why. Nodding  
shortly, Clark watches the slow, sinuous movements of her body, somehow managing to  
make a pole look a lot more sexy than anything inanimate every should be. Long legs  
straddle it briefly as she leans back, a waterfall of long, dark hair spilling onto the floor.

"Acquaintance?" Clark asks, realizing as he takes another drink that his glass is full.  
How is that happening, anyway?

"Somewhat." And is Lex -- nervous? Tearing his eyes from the stage, Clark looks over  
at Lex, who's staring at the girl with the kind of concentration Lionel gets right around  
the time he seriously pisses Lex off. Hmm. Nothing like the redhead, that. Turning his  
attention back to the stage, Clark sips his wine, enjoying the heady feeling of just this  
barest loss of control. When the dark eyes slide up, they catch his, holding, and in her  
next slow bend she never looks away.

He's fumbling for his wallet before he even knows what he's doing, and she's crossing the  
polished surface of the floor, sliding down to lift one leg over her head, arm crooked  
around her thigh. That scrap of quilting fabric isn't even trying to do its job anymore.

But he's -- and this scares him, too -- not looking at her body or her breasts or her legs or  
even her _place_. He's looking at her eyes and wondering why she gets this look of  
intensity from Lex so he just pulls out whatever bill he grabs first and tucks it  
ungracefully into the string around her hips. His fingers feel like sandpaper against he  
hot silk of her skin and he almost groans from the contact.

She doesn't smile at him, not really, just lifts one corner of her mouth and lowers her  
lashes long enough to look at Lex before she moves back out of reach.

Okay, and this is _really_ inappropriate, but Clark scowls, spell broken, and mutters, "Is  
there _any_ ass in here you haven't had?"

"Yours," Lex says instantly, like he's not really _thinking_ as he says it.

Oh. The fuzziness can't quite make sense of it, but the way Lex looks afterward is  
absolutely classic. Instantly, the slim body relaxes on command and Lex picks up his  
wine glass, taking a casual drink. "Though I'm sure there are others here."

Uh-huh. Right. Clark keeps his eyes on the stage, but nothing she's doing is registering  
above the way Lex said that. He's barely aware of her leaving the stage, sipping while  
blindly staring at the curtain she disappeared behind.

Another girl comes out, but Clark can't quite concentrate on her, and alcohol is good,  
right, but also, not so great for all that higher thinking, and then he hears Lex's voice in  
his ear -- warm, moist air brushing impossibly sensitive skin, and Clarks' erection does  
this bobbing thing that's sure to embarrass him any minute now.

"Pull your chair back."

Automatically, Clark obeys, and the slim brunette is--almost completely naked and *in  
his lap*. How had that happened?

"Enjoy" Lex murmurs, sitting back, and Clark's hands close over the arms of the chair as  
the slim body slips down on his, groin settling briefly against his cock and oh wow, damn,  
God, they can DO this kind of thing here?

A spill of dark hair brushes his face as she leans forward. Clark makes a noise that he's  
 _sure_ makes him sound like a twelve year old but apparently, the brunette isn't having a  
problem with it. White arms are looped about his neck and she's "dancing" against him,  
stroking slowly, sensually, and he can feel it like pinpricks on his skin.

This is...good. Amazingly good.

And past where his vision is obscured by her hair, all he gets is a hazy vision of Lex  
looking at him intensely, gray blue eyes almost _black_ in this lighting.

He feels himself jerk, tightens his fingers around the chair.

He's moaning at this point but the girl seems used to this and just strokes down harder,  
faster, moving double-time to the same thick music while Lex's eyelids droop just a  
fraction.

Clark doesn't' know why but the sensation of this is all good but it's the eye candy that's  
really getting him.

Lex and that look on his face that makes big promises and says more about silk and sweat  
and stained sheets than any of these girls ever could.

Lex who will watch him -- _just like that_ while _he_ is the one stroking down.

He can't quite make himself touch her -- he's not sure he wants to -- and his gaze is held  
in Lex's in a way that's inescapable, even if he'd considered looking away. Which he isn't,  
because Lex looks like _that_ , and it's hot, so hot, and he's attracted to his best friend who  
is watching him get a lap dance from a beautiful girl who is only about one third  
responsible for the fact that Clark's about thirty seconds from coming.

As she steps back, Clark drains his glass, a strange feeling of giddy anticipation slipping  
over him like a cloak. This silly, odd, completely free feeling. He's at a _strip club_. He's  
in _Metropolis_. His parents aren't here. He's above the age of consent. He -- he can  
 _do_ something.

He's also not a little drunk, and that's the very best part

"Can we get out of here?" Clark asks, pushing himself upright and enjoying the rush of  
sensation, the loose feel of seemingly water-like muscles.

That Lex is _surprised_ is clear, but he only nods, leaving a bill on the table before  
standing up. Clark reaches for the hand that's offered politely, and it's a shock to realize  
he needs it, balance uncertain and the world is turning in pretty circles, and man, this is so  
cool.

He _likes_ this.

They're stopped three times -- waitresses and a manager, though Clark has no idea what's  
said or why he should care. All his focus is on the warm hand on his arm, fingers  
pressing in like Lex wants to leave fingerprints for others to find and recognize, and that's  
perfectly okay, because, wow. Yes. This is -- really cool.

"Clark," he hears, far away but _very_ close to his ear because he can _feel_ Lex's breath  
on his ear. And it is good.

"Clark are you _drunk_?" Lex asks, he sounds amused.

Clark frowns, and reaches out to wrap one arm around Lex's wrist and jerk him _just_ a  
bit closer. He doesn't' _want_ Lex to sound like he's going to laugh. He wants  
him...bothered. "Not drunk," he protests.

"You're drunk," Lex breathes. It almost sounds like an apology.

But Clark doesn't care and Lex is still leading them through the pulsing crowd, people  
parting for them like Lex is the Moses of the glitterati.

A few more people wave or say goodbye and give Clark Knowing Looks, neither of  
which Clark cares about because he needs oxygen and...skin. A few more steps and they  
tumble out into the cool Metropolis night, stars nowhere to be seen but large, burntorange  
disks of light hanging up, skyscrapers reflecting, a thousand cars screaming by --

But the feeling of Lex's skin on his own still: heavy like a blanket that is just as  
suffocating as the crowd.

"Would you -- " The words trickle off, caught in the cool air--reason tries to surface, but  
Clark tells it to take a long walk. It's late and no one's around, and that makes it okay to  
detour a little from their walk toward the establishment's private covered parking lot,  
pressing Lex up against the wall.

Imagining Lex doing to him what that girl did, slow and dark and dirty.

"Clark, are you okay?"

The wall's close and Lex against it is something to see. Clothes for slumming with the  
younger college kid that's new to Metropolis and the world, blending into the dark of the  
wall, the shadows made between two buildings, this insanely clean and neat alley that  
makes Clark feel like they're the only people in the world.

He can remember how her body moved -- slow, catlike, sensuality like something  
tangible, and tonight, his body can do that, too. Alcohol makes him loose and want  
makes him a little crazy -- he plants both elbows on either side of Lex's head and moves  
like she showed him.

And Lex, beneath those jeans, is just as hard as he is.

"Lex," he hears himself whisper when uncertain hands -- and Lex is never uncertain,  
never -- press to his chest like he wants to pull away. "That was you."

"What? Quickened breath and flushed cheeks, just enough light to see the color and  
Clark bends his head to taste red on silky-smooth skin. Hot and wild, with the scent of  
Lex's cologne like a drug this close.

He'll never smell it again and not get hard. "Her. When she danced with me. That was  
you."

"Jesus, Clark!" Lex moans. Clark can feel Lex tight like a spring, corded muscles are  
stretched taunt from not moving and the tension is radiating off of him. "I think we need  
to have the birds and bees talk," Lex tries, the quipping note in his voice failing totally.

Clark just pushes closer -- close enough to _grind_ their hips together and he's almost  
 _burned_ from the contact. Lex nearly jumps out of his skin and Clark thinks his brain is  
melting, but it's _good_ melting, so it grabs Lex's wrists and pins him to the wall because  
this is _not_ the bad touching that they talked about in fifth grade human health and  
development.

"Clark," Lex tries again, his voice hoarse, "I think I let you have too much to drink. It's  
getting late. You need to get back to -- "

Clark grinds against him again because Lex _talks too much_.

Lex's last words are lost in a choked gasp and finally, finally, Lex grinds back, primitive  
urge and beat running through his veins.

Clark is almost humming from it, feeling it in every pore: that dizzy, blurred, brightly lit  
sensation that is strengthened by alcohol and catalyzed by want. He's been wanting all  
night, all day, from when he was staring at the fucking bunk beds to when the woman  
came on stage and kept his gaze. It's all been one long intricate dance and --

"Clark, Clark - I really don't think -- "

\-- and _Jesus Christ_ \- is Lex _still talking_? Clark boggles at this.

So he does a few calculations and does the most natural thing in the world, bends his  
head and presses his mouth to Lex's.

It's an odd angle, so they shift until noses aren't bumping and no one ends up drooling on  
anyone else but it's hot and cramped and messy like all the best kisses are: mouth opening  
up to one another and tongue sliding and tasting, slow and lazy, like they've got forever  
to do this.

His hips are still moving but he's _kissing Lex_ and he _never_ knew silence could be  
 _this_ golden.

The slim wrists fight his grip, but he can't quite make himself let Lex go. Having him  
against the wall like this, writhing against him, teeth sharp and quick over his lips,  
sucking on his tongue in an unmistakable rhythm, and Clark might be new at this, but he  
knows what that is, what it's meant to tell him, what it will be like the first time Lex goes  
down on him with that incredible, addictive mouth. Utter surety that it's going to happen,  
they're going to happen, and it starts right here.

"Corrupt me," Clark whispers against swollen lips when Lex jerks back to take a breath,  
head knocking into the red brick of the wall. "Show me. Do -- do it to me. Touch me."

He lets go, needing to touch now, has to have Lex's skin imprinted into his fingers.  
Smooth and slick with sweat, tracing over high cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw  
before two fingers are pulled into Lex's mouth and he's _sucking_ on him, oh God, he's  
watching and it's so hot and so good.

Even better when strong hands fix on his hips, guiding him faster, harder, almost brutal  
friction of denim between them and Clark drops a hand from the wall instinctively,  
reaching down between them. Lex's cock makes him pause, and he has to cup it, hard  
length fitted so perfectly it's like his hands were made just for this. They're both  
breathing like they've run across the entire damn galaxy, Lex glaze eyed and so fast, like  
quicksilver moving all over him. Hands on his ass briefly before they're dropped between  
them, unbuttoning Clark's jeans and pulling them roughly loose before sliding beneath, a  
shudder when his hands touch bare skin.

"No underwear." Like the best gift ever, like a prayer of thanks as those hands track  
sensitive skin over his hips, digging in.

"Nothing clean." Thank God he's such a procrastinator. Lex's throat is right there,  
begging for attention, and Clark leans down, mouthing sensitive skin and solid muscle,  
sucking it into his mouth and wondering if he'll leave bruises and wanting to so badly.

Right there, above the collar of even the highest shirt, proof and possession all at once,  
and Lex twists his hips, hands on his ass, jerking him in so close Clark almost has to  
move his hand. Clumsy fingers unzip and unbutton, and right, it's a night for it, it's all  
bare skin as smooth as silk and then Lex lines them up-- "Oh God."

"I'm corrupting you -- right now," Lex breathes into his hair. "I want you dirty, Clark."

That makes him bite, he can't help it, and Lex makes an inhuman sound, thrusting against  
him. So close. A peak he can just see, coming right at him, and he gasps in a startled  
breath, biting again when Lex moans, low and ark and promising.

Clark remembers thinking that people in porn talk too much, but he's starting to get  
maybe that's part of the experience. Because Lex is chanting something low and rough  
like a dare in his ears, and the words are all run together in a litany of four letter praises  
and curses and the perfect hot of Lex's thrusts and Lex's mouth dipping down to kiss his  
neck, his face, bite at his collarbone.

They're probably making sparks and Clark won't be surprised if they set the whole damn  
compound on fire because he's so hot he can barely stand it, the shivering, kneeweakening  
pleasure, and the suddenness of it rushing up and he doesn't have time for  
finesse but all he _does_ catch is the last, rough slide of denim and cock against his own  
before he lets out a shout and slams up against Lex hard enough to guarantee sex bruises  
in the morning.

He's coming and he's gritting his teeth and fucking up against Lex wildly, enough to  
make them both shudder at the contact.

The bricks are rough beneath his fingers and Clark thinks that there is nothing better than  
this: the slick smell of the city and the steamy, dirty maddeningly good rubbing, contact,  
closer - he can't get enough and his body is holding Lex against the wall, he's never going  
to move. They're going to dry and get stuck and Clark doesn't care.

He comes back to himself enough to realize that Lex has bitten through his lip and they  
share the same sex-dazed look.

Shaky, but on their feet, and Clark's forehead rests on Lex's shoulder, vaguely aware of  
the soothing hand rubbing absently against the back of his neck. Lex, smooth and  
malleable around him, and alcohol is the best thing ever. Best thing, really.

A few long moments before Lex shifts, and it's work to step back, but his hands don't  
quite want to let go, clinging long after his body's moved. Falling to his sides, Clark  
draws in a deep breath, reminded of sweaty hair clinging to his face and damp stains on  
his jeans that he could care less about. Lex leans back into the wall again, taking a long,  
deep breath.

"Lex?" Something could go wrong now.

"I need to get--you back to campus." Straightening, Lex buttons his jeans efficiently,  
reaching for Clark to perform the same favor as impersonally as a friend and nothing like  
the semi-slut who was saying such filthy, wonderful things against his ear and moaning  
like he was dying. Mouth dry, Clark nods slowly as Lex turns, following him to their  
car--oh, look at that preferred member. Lex has been here a lot.

Slept with those girls. But hey, now he can say he _has_ slept with everyone in that place.

It's quiet when Lex starts the car. The blackening bruise on his throat's bigger than Clark  
had thought, and he can see the teeth marks still imbedded in Lex's collarbone, coloring  
up as they speak. Clasping his hands in his lap, Clark tries to find something to say, but  
what the hell _did_ you say in moments like this? "Good job," was just wrong.

The dorm's silent when they go back up, and Lex is almost twitchy, like whatever's under  
his skin is trying to get out and failing miserably. He knows the feeling. Silently, he  
unlocks his dorm door, letting Lex inside the darkened room, but of all bizarre things,  
Lex doesn't turn around to say anything particularly meaningful.

He heads, of all places, right for the bunk beds and overturns a pile of laundry to the floor.

Okay, what?

"Lex?"

"Get your bag," Lex says calmly, picking through the pile. Two pairs of jeans, a few  
shirts, some socks.

Clark tries to think. It's very hard. He's post-orgasmic and mostly still drunk. "What?"

"Bag. Under your desk. Throw it here."

The desk is a short, strangely surreal walk, and Clark finally gets over there, grabbing the  
deflated canvas and taking it over. And--why is Lex packing his clothes? "Lex--what?"

Sharp look up--oh. Eyes that say sex, more than sex, words that Clarks' never learned but  
he'd like to, before the pack is over Lex's shoulder and he crosses to the laptop, shutting it  
down and tucking it under one arm. Slim fingers close over his hand, lacing through his,  
and--Lex is leading him back to the door, shutting off the lights with a flick of his wrist,  
using Clark's key to lock the door. "Let's go."

Clark just nods. "Okay."

And it was in Lex's eyes, which makes it a promise.

A dirty, sweaty, naked, sticky promise in 900 count Egyptian cotton sheets that will have  
Clark missing class for days, weeks, _months_ if Clark has anything to say about it.

They're already flying down Amsterdam toward shining towers in the distance when  
Clark's mouth does it, ruins it: "So what is this?"

He's never going to forgive himself because if this leads to less sex or - God forbid - _no_  
sex then he's going to have to sew his lips shut.

Lex doesn't even bother turning just says, "This is us."

Which could sound mean, Clark thinks, but there is a great softness in Lex's voice. Like  
he's only just figuring this out, too, like he's really surprised that this thing is happening,  
that it could at all. Clark wants to tell him that he didn't know either.

Instead, Clark says, "Oh." He pauses and wonders if he needs to go find thread. "This is  
us," he repeats, trying out the words.

Lex smiles now, a little goofy, a lot happy, which Clark thinks Lex should be more,  
because he's really beautiful when he's happy. "Yeah," Lex agrees, "us."

The liquor is starting to wear off, or maybe it's the wind, or maybe it's the prospect of us  
needing a capital U and wedding bells but Clark's brain is filling with all sorts of extra  
information that he doesn't need. But he _wants_ to know how long this is, if he's just  
another conquest; if Clark really is just the last piece of ass before Lex gets full marks.  
Clark can't think that he is: he and Lex are friends, best friends. But maybe, in  
Metropolis, this is just something that good friends do.

But Clark's not brave enough to ask so thank God Lex is distracted enough to say, "We'll  
have to go back."

"Go back?" Clark asks. He's not letting himself think of the implications.

Lex nods, changing lanes. "To get your things. I only grabbed three shirts."

Clark leans back into the seat and breathes.

He thinks about bridges and twists of fate. He thinks about small towns and small  
dreams that change and grow and impossible, improbable things that flourish when  
people have faith or trip into one another. He thinks about accidents and smiles over  
nothing, secrets and history lessons and best friends who have only wanted the best for  
you, all this time.

Clark thinks about saying "I love you," and realizes that it's not about _saying_ it at all.

But he's getting a headache and he needs to clear his head for all the sex.

So he says, "You can buy me new shirts."

Then Lex says, "Good idea," after a beat.

And they go home.

**Author's Note:**

> Pru: I take no responsibility for this; I was ambushed, and then it happened.
> 
> Jenn: Pru SAID she wanted collegefic. She didn't say that she didn't want to help write it.


End file.
